The Passing of Uther
by Momerath
Summary: Uther’s dead. What now? Destinies have got to be fulfilled, but Arthur’s not ready, Merlin’s scared, and if the Saxons, Mordred and Morgana weren't enough, Lancelot's back. Sequel to Broceliande and Joyous Garde, but can standalone. M/A friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**The Passing of Uther**

Uther's dead. What now? Destinies have got to be fulfilled, but Arthur's not ready, Merlin's scared, Lancelot's back, Gwen's trying to keep the dream alive, Morgana's out of her depth, the Saxons are coming and Mordred is stronger than ever. It's in the same universe as my other stories Broceliande and Joyous Garde but can stand alone. Merlin/Arthur friendship. If you want to look at it slashily, feel free to try but you'll have to squint. Sorry bout that.

I don't own the characters, the BBC does, I make no profit and only write this because I'm snowed in and bored, and desperate to avoid work. I've also borrowed from Robert de Boron, Geoffrey of Monmouth and Tennyson, but I reckon I can take them in a fight.

**Chapter One**

It was a particular cruelty that the last morning was a happy one. Or was it a blessing? Afterwards Merlin was never sure. He, Gwen, Gaius and Prince Arthur sat around Gaius' rough table with a humble lunch spread on it, and the jars vibrated with laughter.

"...And there were these three _weirdos –"_ Arthur was saying.

"By weirdos," interrupted Merlin, "he means 'three very heavily armed knights'."

"Weirdos calling themselves Morning-Star and Noon-Sun and Evening-Star, all in different coloured armour...it was completely bizarre. Merlin ran like a little girl."

"I did not!" Merlin was indignant as Gwen laughed, "I did not! I was getting out of your way –you're going to take my eye out with Excalibur one day, you wave it around like a lunatic."

"What happened then?" asked Gwen, leaning on Arthur's shoulder. Everyone around the table knew Arthur had to leave – had to have left already, in fact. She was doing what she always did – trying to stop him. She hated him going, as much as he loved charging off for Camelot.

Arthur was looking outside at the sun, regretfully. "Then? Oh, I beat them all, of course, one by one and rescued the girl." He gently moved Gwen away.

"What girl?" demanded Gwen, playfully put-out, trying to keep his attention from the time.

"The pretty girl we were there to rescue, of course. Don't worry, she's Gareth's girl – I didn't stand a chance."

Gwen kicked him under the table.

"All right," Arthur stretched. "Time for me to go. Father will be waiting."

"I'm coming." Merlin jumped to his feet.

"No, you're not."

"Yes. I am."

"Merlin. We're going down to Emione for all of a _day_, so my father can say hello and I can apologise for beating Torre at jousting last month, basically. There might be other diplomatic things going on, but essentially those are the crucial points as far as I can make out. You stay here. Torre hates magic as much as my father does, stay out of it." He became aware that both Merlin and Gaius were glaring at him, as much as Gwen was looking confused, so carried on swiftly. "Basically," he attempted a rescue, "basically I'm saying he's not a nice chap, so isn't worth the journey. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Wear your scabbard, then."

"No."

"_Yes_. There have been rumours of Saxons around the Mercian borders. What if they're between here and Emione? What then?" He held out the scabbard, which Arthur refused to have in his own rooms. Arthur batted it away. Now both Gwen and Gaius were looking confused.

"Let me know when there _aren't_ rumours of Saxons around our borders. I'm sick to death of rumours of Saxons! _No_, Merlin. Not against Saxons."

Merlin followed him to the corner where he was putting on his cloak. "If not against Saxons," he hissed, "then when?"

"Against magic. I won't use an unfair advantage, Merlin. It isn't honourable."

"It doesn't stop you getting killed. It stops you bleeding. It just rules out one of many ways you can die in battle. You can still be beaten the death and bashed on the head and I don't know what else, but I'm sure _you_ do. Think of it as extra armour."

Arthur lay a hand on Merlin's shoulder, his favoured technique for attempting to convince Merlin he was taking something seriously. "I won't. But thank you. Make sure you look after it, I dare say it will come in handy, but not today. It's a day trip to Emione, not an expedition to the wastelands."

He moved back in to the centre of the room and kissed Gwen lightly, waved at Gaius and bashed Merlin's shoulder. "Goodbye, ladies!" he called over his shoulder, popping a lump of cheese into his mouth as he left.

Had any of them known it was the last time they would ever see Prince Arthur, they might have looked at him closer, or gone to the window and watch him and the knights clatter out of the courtyard, to get a final glimpse. But they didn't know.

******

They weren't even late back. No one was worried. It was not even three the next afternoon. Gwen was at the workbench grinding herbs, while Merlin sat on the workbench, legs swinging, one of Gaius' books on his lap, peeling a peach and testing Gwen.

"External painkiller?"

"Comfrey, Arnica, Marigold, Chervil."

"Feverfew?"

"Headaches."

"And?"

But at that point the shout went up that the Emione party had been spotted on the approach, and both Gwen and Merlin cheerfully abandoned their work.

Later, Merlin remembered them both standing subtly back in the courtyard, in one of the deep shadows that contrasted with the dazzling brightness of the area in the sun, and Gwen saying happily "that was quick", and him agreeing. He would have thought he would have sensed something. But he had no idea.

His stomach first turned when he saw Sir Leon's face, leading the group in, just in front of Uther. Lifting his visor, he looked ashen and shocked. He was so busy looking in alarm at Leon that he didn't know at first why Gwen gripped his arm, so tightly it was painful, with fingers that were suddenly freezing cold. "Merlin," she said, almost faint. "Merlin." And then he saw. There was no Arthur. The group was still entering in the courtyard, but his armour wasn't there, and...he counted. No, there were three missing. And Arthur wasn't there. He'd know the armour from miles away and it wasn't there. Uther's was there, Leon's, Kay's, Tristan's...but Arthur's armour wasn't there. "Where is he?" Gwen didn't even care she was shouting now. "Merlin, _where is he_?"

Merlin looked again, he didn't believe his own eyes. But...this wasn't possible. "No..." he said. "No...don't worry..." but then he stopped because he thought if he opened his mouth again he would surely be sick.

Sir Leon wheeled his horse around to face the more curious-minded citizens of Camelot, who had come out to greet the returning party. He raised his sword. "The king!" he took a breath, and then shouted loud enough for his voice to ring across the sunny yard and into the open windows of the castle. "The king is dead! Long live the king!"

Uther took his helmet off and the crowd gasped, because it wasn't Uther, but Arthur, in his father's armour, on his father's charger. He looked around the yard, his hair slick from sweat, pale-faced, a small cut trickling blood under his eye, exhausted and narrow-lipped, a warrior-king.

"Long live King Arthur!" shouted Sir Leon, and the crowd roared in echo, slamming pots together and stamping feet, and banging anything they could find until the shout rang across not just the citadel but the whole town, and in the middle, King Arthur sat on his father's horse, holding Excalibur high above his head, it shining like a beacon in the summer sunlight; acknowledging the applause.

Only in the shadowy corner next to the steps was there silence. Gwen had her hand over her mouth, and Merlin sank to sit on the lowest step, hand resting on the statue of a dog he had once, many years ago now, turned into an actual dog. Back when Valiant had seemed the biggest problem he would ever face.

Gwen turned to him, her eyes wide with horror and filled with tears, hand still on mouth.

"That's that, then," was all he could think to say in reply.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Passing of Uther**

**Chapter Two**

King Arthur strode through the dark, cold corridors of his castle, eyes adjusting from the bright sunlight outside. Doors opened as though by magic in front of him as excited guards saw him approach. On his left, Sir Leon matched his great speed without difficulty, Sir Kay and Tristan lagged behind. He was joined on his right by Geoffrey of Monmouth and various other advisors trailed behind with the knights, all running down from their offices, who until that morning had looked at him as though he were a stupid child and now desperately wanted to inform him about the problems in Lyonesse. He ignored them all. He was single-minded in his determination to go to his chambers.

"Sire," Leon spoke quietly enough that above the clatter of the knights behind him and wittering of officials, only Arthur could hear him. "Sire, you're going the wrong way."

Arthur stopped abruptly, and almost caused more injuries behind than the Saxons had managed that morning. "Sire, your chambers are over there now. Above the great hall. It's the strongest part of the citadel." Leon maintained as steady a gaze as he could. Both he and Arthur knew that Arthur was mere moments away from losing the warrior-king mystique to nervous exhaustion, and both knew that couldn't happen until a door had been shut somewhere between him and the train of people that had attached themselves to the new king.

"Right away?" asked Arthur, lowly. "I can't...just go back and...?"

"No, Sire. It's like the armour."

"Very well." He turned on his heel, and his entourage attempted to negotiate the handbrake turn in a tight corridor.

"Sire," said a councillor. "Sire, I wonder, when can we expect your first meeting of the council? These are troubled times, and we have a lot to –"

"Quite." Arthur was at the door of his father's chambers now. "I quite agree."

"And a coronation," added Geoffrey, somewhere at the back.

"And a _funeral_," added Arthur, sharply. "Is my father's body...?"

"In the city now, sire. Sir Gawain and Sir Galahad are with him," confirmed Leon.

"Right. Where's my servant?"

"Here, sire."

Arthur stared at the man, who was exceptional for being the only person in Camelot to look even faintly grieved, apart from Arthur. Arthur vaguely recognised him. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Bernard, sire. The king's servant."

"The _old _king's servant, maybe. Could you go and find my servant, please? Where is he?"

"No," said the councillor again, "Bernard is the king's servant, sire. A king's servant must be proven, sire. We can't have any old peasant being close to the king and having that sort of influence. Bernard is the most trusted in Camelot. Your old servant can be found another job."

Leon looked at the floor, braced. Arthur bit his lip, looked at the full corridor, the snivelling Bernard, the intractable councillor, attempted to keep the rage within and failed. "_MERLIN_!" he roared. "_MERLIN_! _MERLIN_!"

"I'm _coming_!" Merlin appeared briefly above the mass of people, elbows askew, fighting his way through.

"You really should address the people, sire," added the first councillor.

"Not until after the council meets. That should be first," said another.

"All right!" Arthur swallowed hard, and raised his hand, as he had seen his father do. Amazingly, it worked. The sea of faces – from embattled warriors fresh from the fight to aged bureaucrats, stared expectedly at him. He had no idea what he was going to say. "All right!" he said again, to buy some time. "I need...I need to get changed and cleaned up. We will convene in two hours in the great hall. Everyone prepare what you want to tell me. Make it brief. And clear. Very brief and clear. Pretend I haven't been paying attention at any council meetings, ever. Make it that clear."

"Thank you, Sire," said Geoffrey, as the others agreed and began to move off, united in their general opinion that the pretence wouldn't take much imagination.

"Sire," said Leon. "Your cut looks sore. Would you like me to fetch the physician and his assistant?"

Arthur, who had completely forgotten about his small cut that neither looked nor was remotely sore, stared at Leon, taken aback. Leon returned his gaze with a carefully constructed expression of innocent concern. "Thank you, Leon. Yes. Please."

Leon nodded and departed, as Merlin finally broke free from the retreating crowd and reached Arthur's side. He snatched the keys from the luckless Bernard, took Arthur's arm and opened the chambers.

Arthur wordlessly threw Excalibur on his father's desk, and turned to face Merlin as he closed the chamber doors. Merlin leaned back against the shut door. Arthur was framed by the sunlight streaming in to the king's chambers, glittering off his armour.

"I'm not ready, Merlin," said Arthur. He said it as clearly and simply as a frightened child, innocent of any emotion apart from pure fear, with a creeping note of panic. "Merlin. I'm not ready."

He met Merlin's gaze, lips trembling and eyes shining with terror. He did not look at all like a warrior-king. He looked scared to death.

"Well," said Merlin, returning the gaze as levelly as he could, not to betray any slight panic he might be feeling himself, "well, to be honest, Arthur, you have to be. And because of that, you will be."

He hoped it sounded more convincing to Arthur's ears than it did to his.

*****

"Arthur, you have to sit down," Gwen implored him, pulling at his arm, but he wouldn't. He hadn't washed or changed. He was walking up and down the king's chambers, holding Excalibur and occasionally waving it, as though replaying the fight in his head.

"What happened, sire?" asked Gaius, carefully preparing a sedative as subtly as possible.

"It wasn't even a warrior's death, Gaius," said Arthur, stopping, and approaching the physician urgently, almost aggressively, "they poisoned the water!" he snorted. "They poisoned the _water_. Very specifically – only my father's water bottle, it was when we went hunting. Torre's dead too, he drank from it by mistake, Urre's three years younger than me and suddenly Emione is his responsibility!"

"Who's 'they'?" asked Merlin, as he tried and failed to get Arthur to stand still long enough to take off the chainmail. The new king still had the grime of the fight over his face and clothes, the smell of blood and sweat. Merlin suspected he was scared to take them off, to acknowledge that catastrophic event was over, and now came the big blank of everything else which would follow.

"I don't know. Saxons attacked us, but there were so few of them, it was barely a skirmish. I think it was Morgana and Mordred. I know it was. I didn't see them, but I felt them." There was a pause, Arthur didn't look at Merlin as he said. "We think it was hemlock." He allowed Gwen to practically wrestle him into accepting having his face washed. He took her arm for strength as he repeated, "it wasn't even a warrior's death." She kissed his forehead, wondering if it was for the last time.

"That doesn't matter," she told him. "He was a fine warrior, everyone knew that." She laced her fingers through his and leaned on his chest. She would have to give him up soon. But not yet. She probably shouldn't have come when Leon came for her, but she couldn't leave him. Not yet. She had always known she would have to let him go, but not yet.

Merlin physically held him still by the shoulders as he undid the armour on his back. His fingers were trembling, but he kept his voice steady. "Your councillors will be waiting."

"Merlin." Arthur turned around, finally free of the chainmail. He gently let go of Gwen and lead Merlin to the next room in the chambers. "Merlin, I'm not ready."

"Stop saying that."

"No, I'm not. You know it. I'm not king material."

"Arthur, I've never met anyone more king material than you."

"That's because you hang around with the likes of Gaius and Will. You've never seen king material in your life. No. I'm not. The only reason people say that is because I was the only prince. Listen to me," he was staring at Merlin now with a joy in his eyes which scared Merlin more than the panic had. "I've thought of something. You said you swapped my life for Nimeuh's at the Isle of the Blessed."

"Ye-es," Merlin watched him doubtfully. "Sort of. What about it?"

Arthur smiled, broadly, happily, and a little madly. "I want to swap my life for my father's."

Merlin's jaw physically dropped. He almost dropped the chainmail he was still holding. "You want to _what_?"

"It's the perfect answer."

"It's not _any _answer! Are you _mad_?"

"Is everything all right?" called Gwen in concern from the next room.

"Fine!" they both answered simultaneously, still staring at each other fiercely.

"So," said Merlin, dropping his voice, "Arthur Pendragon, are you seriously telling me you want to _run away_?"

"No! It isn't running away." Arthur was still grinning like a lunatic. "Merlin, I'll be an awful king. You know it. I don't listen, no one really likes me, I can't stand the councillors and they think I'm an idiot...I'll be awful. I can't do that to Camelot. I won't. I gladly give my life for Camelot."

Merlin lay the chainmail down as carefully as he could. "Okay, Arthur," he said, finally, calmly. "You and I both know you don't mean this. You're grieving and you're scared, both of which are perfectly fine, even for kings. Especially for kings, in fact. Your father loved you very much, Arthur, and he did do good things for Camelot...I expect. But if you seriously think that your future is worth less than his past, you are more of a clotpole than I had ever imagined. Leaving aside the fact that swapping lives really isn't that easy – _trust _me on that, if nothing else – leaving aside that fact, you are going to be a wonderful king. You are going to be a king like none before you. You are going to bring peace and prosperity and happiness not just to Camelot but elsewhere, too."

"The Dragon told you that too, did he?" said Arthur, bitterly. The crazy light had died from his eyes. He knew there was no escape.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact he did," said Merlin, turning away from his surprised eyes. "He did. But I don't need him to tell me that. I see it for myself. And so do others. If you think Gwen doesn't, or Leon doesn't then you do need to start listening more. I told you that once before. Get washed and dressed. The one thing you are right about is that your councillors don't think much of your attention span, so at least try and be on time, all right?"


	3. Chapter 3

**The Passing of Uther **

**Chapter Three**

King Arthur sat on the throne, feet on the table, chin on his hand, lost in thought.

"Sire?"

"Yes...?" he had forgotten the councillor's name again. He couldn't think how many council meetings he had endured over the last few weeks, and still he couldn't remember their names. "Yes?" he said, when the name wouldn't come.

"I'm sorry, Sire. It looked like you...I was just making sure you could hear me."

Arthur, whose difficulty was generally blocking the various councillors' words out, smiled ruefully. "Weren't you just telling me the genealogy of King Mark of Cornwall, councillor?"

The councillor glared as much as he felt he could to a crowned king of Camelot. "Yes, Sire. His wife, Lady Blanchefleur, is the daughter of..."

"I suppose," said Arthur, cracking a walnut, "I suppose my point was – why do I care? Not that I _do_ care. But why _should_ I?"

"Sire, I'm trying to explain why he is at war with King Hoel of Brittany. It dates back to their grandfathers, who were on the opposite side to your great-great-grandfather in the war between Orkney and Lothian, but happily, Lady Blanchefleur's great-grandfather..."

"Lucan," said Arthur, hoping he had remembered the name right. "Lucan, I implore you, don't tell me about Blanchefluer's great-grandfather." He frowned. "_What _war between Orkney and Lothian? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know." He held up his hand. "Listen to me. What Hoel and Mark's grandfathers got up to is of no concern to me, and I'm staggered it is to them, but no accounting for taste. We send embassies to them both."

"Both?"

"Yes."

"We can't to both, Sire."

Arthur scowled. "Lucan, your knowledge of genealogy surely means you are aware I am _king_?"

"Sire," Lucan said courageously, despite his colleagues' groans in recognition of a lost cause, "you can't possibly send an embassy to them both. If you send one to King Mark it makes a mockery of Brittany's Lady Blanchefleur's great-grandfather's loyalty to King Lot!"

"Wait, who's Lot?" asked Arthur, looking up from a tricky nut.

"King Lot of Lothian, who was king during the war between Orkney and Lothian!" exclaimed Lucan, in frustration. "In which King Hoel's wife's great-"

"You know, Lucan," said Arthur, swinging his legs off the table, and leaning forwards, towards the councillor, fixing him with a narrow gaze. "You know, sometimes, you make me wish the Saxons had killed me when they had the chance. Are you in Vortigern's pay?"

"_Sire_!" breathed Lucan, scanadalized.

"Okay!" said Sir Leon, louder than necessary, slamming a goblet down on the table. "Okay! That's all we have time for now, I'm afraid. Look how time flies. Sire, would you excuse us?"

"I excuse some of you," said Arthur, still glaring through narrow eyes at Lucan.

The councillors filed out, Lucan leading the way, but Arthur, back to leaning back with his feet on the table, called out to Leon. "Leon, we send embassies to both." He concentrated on the nutcracker. "My father didn't die for nothing. This is a new era. We aren't going to carry old prejudices and hatreds over. There are ones we cannot shed, and they are burden enough, the ones which we can get rid of are left here. You understand?"

"Yes, Sire."

Arthur looked up, frowning. "Do you agree, Leon? I want your honesty."

Leon looked at him, his face open and completely honest. "Sire, I agree completely."

Arthur nodded and popped a walnut into his mouth. "Yeah, I thought you would. Leon, do you ever feel our council meetings are completely unproductive?"

"Yes, Sire," said Leon, swiftly, and with equal honesty.

"I mean, why do I care about the Lady Blanchefleur's grandfather?"

"You didn't seem to, much," agreed Leon, walking back towards the king.

"I don't think you do much either."

"No," confirmed Leon, taking a walnut from the bowl. Arthur handed him the nutcracker.

"I need a new council," said Arthur, looking contemplatively at the ceiling. "Of people like you and me. New people. Knights who actually know the terrain and might not know everyone's grandfathers but know what's going on _now_, they know on a personal basis, I need people like that. People who have fought Saxons and are as aware of living conditions in the countryside as they are of the current occupants of castles, even if they don't know everyone's first cousins once removed. It's no use having council meetings and then asking around the knights barracks for advice, it's a waste of time. Leon." The feet were off the table, and Arthur sat up. "Leon, I want you to call the knights. I don't care if they're at their castles, get them here for a meeting. I'm talking Kay, Tristan, Gareth, Agravayne, Galahad, Lavayne, Geraint, Lionel, Bors..."

"....Lancelot?" asked Leon.

"....Lancelot," confirmed Arthur, with the briefest hesitation.

"Is he a knight?" wondered Leon.

Arthur waved a hand. "I'm not sure anymore. Probably. Let's say yes. Send embassies to all the kingdoms asking them to send trustworthy, honourable and decent knights to represent them. Even the kings whose grandfathers upset my great-aunts, or whatever. If it doesn't bother them, it doesn't bother me. I want them all here. It's time we got talking to each other. And none of this ridiculous sitting around a long table where I can't hear people at the end, so everyone who has annoyed the bigwigs like Lucan end up down there – I have no idea what's going on in Powys, because no one likes Gruffydd so he's always down there and I can't hear a word he's saying. I want an equal table. A round one. I value everyone's opinion – well, all of _the new _council'sopinions. That's what I want Camelot to stand for, Leon. Not stuffy genealogies and ridiculous grudges, I want good, brave, honest, decent men who will use their power to protect and not just inflict violence, but who will stand and fight wrong and not sit around explaining it away via history, all equal and all valued."

Leon, who had suffered years in Uther's council as the lone voice of a currently serving knight, was surprised to find a lump in his throat. "Thank you, Sire," he said with some emotion, and left.

Merlin, from where he had been sitting, reading, in the corner, looked up. "A round table?" he said. "Where are you going to put it?"

Arthur shrugged and got up. "Can you take care of it, Merlin? You can make it. Make it beautiful."

"I'm not a carpenter," said Merlin, as Arthur walked down the long hall.

"You have _other _skills!" shouted Arthur over his shoulder, and left.

****

Gwen curtsied as he entered the room. She hadn't curtsied to him for a long time, but things were different now. She hadn't seen him for days; she knew how busy he was, and he couldn't drop by anymore. There were embassies leaving daily for far-flung courts. In one of those courts would be the future queen of Camelot, and although Gwen was a generous-hearted girl really, the thought of it consumed her with jealousy. She had known it would happen, of course. Even before it had begun, the end was in sight. She knew that, and accepted it, and joined in the other servants' gossip about whether it would be Elaine of Astolat or Lyonors of Rhaged, but she did allow herself a private, torturous jealousy, especially at night when she wished every evil on the heads of all passably handsome, vaguely aristocratic women in the known world.

"Sire," she said. "Are you well?"

"Quite well," he said, closing the door, and then went over to her, put his arms around her and kissed her. "I love you, Guinevere. You'll be my queen, won't you?"

When not driving herself mad imagining a spoilt princess as queen of Camelot, Gwen had imagined this moment to drive herself even more mad. But she had never really believed it, even lying awake listening to dawn choruses. She was completely dazed. In that moment, she looked up into Arthur's face, which was as young, kind, loving and empty of strain and tension as he had been the first time he kissed her in her small home before the jousting tournament, looking at her now as though there was no more at stake here than him, her and their collective and independent happiness. "Yes," she heard her voice say. "Of course I will."

He picked her up with a shout and swung her, she shrieked with joy and for a moment it really was just the two of them, and that was all that mattered.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Passing of Uther**

**Chapter Four**

The great hall resounded the men's voices, ringing off the stone walls and shields. Merlin watched from the sidelines, contrasting the cheer with the sterile old council meetings. Admittedly, they didn't have anywhere to sit yet, which added to the party ambience. Through it all, King Arthur walked, the firelight gleaming on his crown, whacking a shoulder here or there, shaking a hand earnestly, or listening intently to another. Merlin had never formed a definitive idea of what the Dragon meant by Albion, but surely here, in the great hall of Camelot, was the beginning of it.

"Sir Lancelot," he said, as the man in question approached. Lancelot wore nobles' clothes, he held his head high and walked with a self-confidence which Merlin had never seen in him before.

"That's how King Arthur is introducing me," agreed Lancelot, with a grin. "So I suppose I am. How are you, Merlin? How's the new regime?"

"I'm well, thank you. The new regime suits me nicely. The King's plans are getting everyone very excited. Although," he leaned in, "rumours fly that the King's best friend is secretly a sorcerer, so you had better watch out."

Lancelot laughed. "I'll keep my eyes open. No progress on the legalising magic front, then?"

"Well, that's for your council to decide. It's a tricky balance to strike, not opening a way for Morgana and Mordred. But if anyone can strike it, I know Arthur can. With all of your help." Lancelot indicated agreement and the two looked over the crowd. "I've been hearing about your successes on the Northumbria marches," said Merlin presently. "It sounds like you've had a lot of action against the Saxons. No renegade druids though?"

"Not a snifter of a renegade druid, I'm afraid. Plenty of Saxons, though. I've just been discussing with Sir Geraint about his techniques on the Cornish marches, we could learn a lot from each other. Yes. You should come up sometime, Merlin. You wouldn't believe it, but I'm actually forming quite a household. I have men of my own!"

"How _is _Joyous Garde? Waterproof? Joyous?"

"Very waterproof. And hopefully very joyous, very soon."

Merlin caught the note of excited anticipation in his voice and glanced at him sideways. Was it possible Lancelot, of all people, had swagger? He stood here in King Arthur's great hall as if there had never been any question of his not being here, talking about teaching knights things, looking around as though everything pleased him...as though it had been possible it wouldn't.

"I'm glad you're happy," he said. And he was. But he had to wonder if killing a few Saxons and renovating a castle could prompt such a revolution. Knights, he reflected not for the first time, were a very strange breed.

The great door opened. "The Lady Guinevere!" announced the guard. Arthur emerged from the crowd, face alight, to meet Gwen, dressed in the beautiful clothes which would once have graced Morgana, accompanied by Lady Enid and Lady Iseult. He took her hand, and led her to the thrones.

Lancelot looked like a dead man. He staggered back as though he had been struck full in the face by the flat of a sword. Merlin put down his goblet to reach out to steady him. "It's not possible," he gasped.

"It's been arranged for a few weeks," said Merlin. "But only announced a couple of days ago. They marry next month. I'm sorry, I assumed you had heard." The gossip was such he was amazed news hadn't reached as far as Orkney.

"No, you don't understand," Lancelot was gripping Merlin's arm. "It isn't possible."

"Lancelot," Merlin was embarrassed now. "Look, I know you like Gwen, but you said – you did say you wouldn't come between them."

Lancelot blinked at him, as though he were mad. "No. You don't understand. I've seen her. I've dreamt about her. I've had visions of her at Joyous Garde."

"Visions?" Merlin sharply dropped his arm. "What are you talking about? Lancelot?"

"It's her who keeps me going. I see her...I see her all the time in my dreams. I see the life we are going to have together. I did it for her. I did it all for her." He was like a blind man, looking wildly around the room as though not being able to locate Merlin's voice in the cacophony. "We're going to live there together. We're going to die there together."

He spoke with such certainty that Merlin's blood ran cold. He stepped backwards from Lancelot, as though scared of being infected by the madness. He _was_ scared. He was scared by the way Lancelot was staring at Arthur and Gwen with such disbelief, as though they were not real people, as though it were they that were the vision. "Dreams aren't real, Lancelot," said Merlin, sharply. "I dream about a lot of things. I dream about being a fish. That doesn't mean I'm going to become a fish."

Lancelot shook his head heavily, as though underwater. "No, he was telling the truth. He meant it. He wasn't lying. No, he said it would be happen."

Merlin could hardly hear Lancelot above the thundering of blood in his ears. His stomach had dropped through the floor. "Who? Who? Who are you talking about?"

"The boy. In the dreams." Lancelot pushed away from the wall, Merlin and the crowd, staggering towards the door with the disorientation of a drunk.

It was Merlin's turn to stand as though struck. He was dazed. Forgetting where he was, he realised he was shouting: "Lancelot! _What did he look like_?" and Sir Leon was staring at him in unconcealed alarm.

****

"Sir Lancelot."

He knew the boy would come to his dream that night. "You lied to me," he said, angry. Angrier than he had ever been before, as grief-stricken as when he had lost his family. "You lied. She isn't going to be mine."

The boy stared at him, as usual his ice blue eyes were completely unfazed. His expression never changed. He looked always looked faintly sad, but otherwise completely expressionless and certainly without pity. He didn't seem capable of deception, nothing was hidden. "I didn't lie, Sir Lancelot. I didn't show you what was going to happen. I can't do that. There is no fixed destiny. I only showed you what _should_ be. You know it should be, Sir Lancelot. In your heart. You know how happy she will make you, and how happy you will make her. You are an honoured knight; she will be your beautiful lady. You make each other complete. Do you remember what I told you?"

Lancelot was standing now, defeated. "We are two sides of the same coin."

"Exactly. He doesn't love her, Sir Lancelot, like you do. I know you love the king, I know you are loyal to him."

"I do! I am!" he looked up fiercely. "He is a good man!"

"Yes," said the boy, flatly. "Yes. He loves his kingdom, it is true. But he doesn't love her. He doesn't know how. He's a king, not a husband. She loves him because she doesn't know that he can never return that love. They will make each other miserable, Sir Lancelot. You aren't betraying the king by taking Gwen from him, you are betraying yourself, her and him by not."

"Lancelot?"

That was her voice. Was he still dreaming? No, he was in bed again. He was awake now. The boy had gone.

"_Lancelot_?" hissed her voice again. She was outside. He clambered out of bed into the cold night air and let her in.

"Gwen." They stood in the grey dawn light, shivering in the cold. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't say hello at the party." She blew on her fingers, not meeting his eye. "I wanted to say hello."

"There are more appropriately regal ways," he said, cold and sick to death. "Why are you here?"

She caught the tone and looked miserable. "I love him, Lancelot," she said, simply. It was the only explanation she could offer.

"You don't _know _him," it came out crueller than he had meant. But the boy's words rang in his head. It drowned out everything. She was doing this, was doing this against everything which should be.

Gwen looked up at his scornful expression, surprised and hurt.

He hated causing her pain. But the anger he felt drove him on, spitting out the words. How could she not see? How could he make her understand? "You don't _know _him. He's a king, Gwen. Do you really think he loves you?"

"Yes," she said, faintly, trying to find Lancelot in this person's new dark countenance. "I know he does."

"Then you don't know him." He opened the door. "I love you, Gwen, and I always have. I didn't need my eyes opened to anything. It didn't creep up. I knew. And what's more, you knew too. It didn't matter to either of us what we were, we loved each other as we were. I don't know what you and Arthur have, but it isn't love, whatever you believe at the moment. One day you'll know your mistake. One day you'll want to be queen of my humble Joyous Garde, not queen of a whole kingdom, they can't love you back, it's a cold love. He has that cold love. You don't. He's a king, not a husband. And you don't want someone who loves their people and their kingdom, you want someone who can love you. Now leave before anyone finds you here."

"You're wrong," she said, snatching the door from him, and walking into the corridor. She turned around, head high, angry, defiant and proud but her shaking voice and shining eyes betraying her, even in the shadows of the lamplight. "You're wrong."

"No," said Lancelot, leaning on the door, "I'm not." And he closed the door.

*****

"Brothers," Arthur stood, looking around the circle of seated knights. The new table shone, like Excalibur, with an internal glory. None round it could not realise it was magic. It lit up the knights' faces with the glow of anticipation and barely-concealed glee. "Brothers, we are here today to bring a new period to Camelot, and this whole isle of Albion. This brotherhood is one of honour, defending the weak, the poor, those unable to defend themselves, using strength for the good, standing firm and fighting the bad. We have no private problems here. Troubled times are on the approach, and need honesty to face them. I lay all our cards on the table. Mordred and Morgana are not just Camelot problems, they aren't just Pendragon problems. The Saxons are not just Mercia and Northumbria's problems. They are coming for us all, gentlemen, and we stand here to maintain peace and prosperity for us, and all in our kingdoms. We stand together."

The knights clapped and banged the table, and their cheeks flushed with excitement contrasted sharply with Lancelot, gripping the edge of the table, and pale to his lips. But only Merlin noticed. And it chilled him even more than the talk of Mordred and Saxons that followed.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Passing of Uther **

**Chapter Five **

If Sir Bors was aware of the temperature drop in the room, he did a good job of not showing it. The knights stared at him in mingled disbelief, disapproval and disappointment, the table still glowing despite its extensive use over the months that had followed. Arthur sat, elbow on armrest of his chair, chin in hand, listening intently to the report from Lyonesse but without much indication he was liking what he was hearing. "And so," concluded Sir Bors, "I think it's something we have to consider."

"Do you?" said Arthur, not moving, but voice indicating extreme doubt.

Slightly testily, Sir Bors said "Sire, King Meloynas has received his payments promptly and in full from Vortigern. I believe Vortigern is in good faith."

Arthur blinked, very slowly, still immobile. "You," he said, in a voice to freeze a summer sea, "you...believe...Vortigern...is in...good faith?" Had Arthur branded 'simpleton' on Sir Bors' forehead, he couldn't have made his point any clearer.

Sir Bors was bristling. "I do," he said, defiantly. "He has kept his part of the deal with King Meloynas, conscientiously."

Arthur stretched, with a sigh, and said casually, "And King Meloynas has kept his side of the bargain too, of course."

"Well, yes. As is honourable." Sir Bors delivered the final statement as though he believed it were the culmination of his entire argument. Sir Leon almost dropped his goblet, and Sir Kay's jaw nearly fell through the tabletop. All the knights' eyes swivelled to Arthur, who had finished stretching, and was now lying back in his chair, hands across his chest.

"Indeed," he said. "Honourable. Yes. Depends on your view of honour, of course." He rose from his chair and strolled towards one of the huge windows which flooded the hall with light. Merlin, from his seat, watched him move. Everyone around the table knew the explosion was coming. Only Sir Bors seemed entirely ignorant of it.

"You often talk of honour, sire," said Sir Bors. "I believe you can deal with King Meloynas and Vortigern while maintaining your honour." He rocked back on his heels, smugly looking around the table.

"Bors," said Arthur, turning around from the window, red hot anger on his cheeks. "Bors, I don't think you have the least notion of my honour. King Meloynas is in the pay of the Saxons. He is taking money from them in return for letting them raid his country at will, and attack everyone else's from Lyonesse territory. He allows them to bleed his population dry of both blood and money. He makes them fight against their own people. This is your idea of honour? It is _not_ – " he was beginning to shout. Merlin glanced at him, and he took a deep breath. He spoke again, without shouting, but with extreme anger. "It is not my idea of honour. Astolat has asked me to defend them from the Saxons in Lyonesse, and I will defend them. And I will do so with honour. And if Sir Tristan was here, he would say the same thing – he sees his father's foolishness in this business, his honour is outraged by it. I am frankly appalled yours isn't."

"You asked me to visit Lyonesse and talk to Meloynas and Vortigern," said Sir Bors, steadily, "to reach a compromise. They offered me – you – a good deal, Sire. I consider my honour fulfilled. It will bring riches to Camelot."

"I didn't send you compromise my honour, Bors. I'm scandalised. You can go back immediately and tell them Camelot will not even entertain the idea of taking Saxon money, or Lyonesse money, and if they go near Astolat again they can expect to come against Camelot. Is that clear? Now get out of my sight." He sat back at the table and looked at the other knights. "Next?"

Sir Bors gathered his things, bright red under the stare of the knights and his king. He cleared his throat. "I am sorry for the offence, sire, I shall of course convey your reply. But...sire, the Saxon threat grows daily. Their numbers are huge. I did not think it dishonourable to consider other options."

Arthur raised his eyes to Sir Bors'. "Out."

After the door had shut behind him, there was a brief pause. Then Sir Leon said "Sire..."

"Leon?" he said sharply.

"Sire. Sir Bors is wrong about many things, but he isn't wrong about the growing Saxon threat. With or without a foothold in Lyonesse, the raids are getting worse. Mercia is struggling even with our help, and much of the coast of Northumbria barely recovers from one raid before experiencing another."

"It's true," chipped in Sir Lancelot, catching Leon's silent plea for support. "We do our best, but the people on the coast are suffering gravely. Their main dependency is fishing, and many of them are scared to leave the harbours now."

"I know." Arthur was looking down at a document. The knights looked at each other.

"Open battle is only a matter of time," said Leon, finally.

"I know."

Leon stared at the king's bent head for a moment. "Do you think we can win?" he asked.

Arthur glanced up from the parchment he had been examining, and looked around the table. "We have to," he answered. "And because of that, we will. Right, Ywain –please tell me that ridiculous land dispute in the lower town has been sorted out? And does _anyone _know where Tristan actually is? Hasn't he been in Brittany for about eighty years?"

Ywain began talking about the lower town.

****

It was after the Round Table meeting that Merlin heard it, as they walked back to the king's chambers. "Emrys." He stopped dead in his tracks, Arthur nearly crashing into him.

"Do you want to watch out?" he said, giving him an irritable shove. Council meetings always made him tired and moody. They were always very bleak, and King Arthur had never really got the hang of bureaucracy.

Merlin looked around wildly. It was a man's voice, not Mordred or the Dragon, the two people that called him that. He hadn't been called since the Dragon had left. "Emrys," it said again.

"Merlin," Arthur eyed him suspiciously. "What's going on? You are standing right in my way. You can you take one step either way so I can get on? Are you drunk?"

Merlin stepped one way, absently.

"Are you all right?"

"Completely fine," Merlin reassured him, too quickly. Arthur looked at him even more suspiciously, but left him to it.

"Emrys, please come to the lake."

"Who are you?" he thought, trying to project. He wasn't completely sure how to do it.

"A friend," said the voice, "come after nightfall" and then Merlin knew it was gone.

****

Sneaking out of the castle was something Merlin hadn't done for years, and he felt strangely nostalgic about it, creeping down the corridors, watching for guards' shadows, holding his breath. He was less nostalgic about the tramping through wet undergrowth in cold autumn night air, but he felt vaguely young and energised again as he arrived by the lakeshore. The water glistened in the moonlight, reflecting the clouds as they moved quickly across the dark sky. There were two figures waiting for him, sitting on a log, a man and a woman. Druids.

Merlin walked towards them, tentatively. They looked completely unsurprised by his arrival.

"Hello, Emrys," said the man. "It is an honour to meet you. Will you sit?"

Merlin looked at the log the man was offering, and looked back. "Who are you?"

"Friends," said the man again, with another congenial wave towards the log.

"How do I know that?"

The man smiled, a friendly if slightly exasperated smile. "You know that for the same reason you came. Because there is no way the Lady of the Lake would allow us to meet here if we weren't your friends, would she?"

No, she wouldn't. Merlin looked back across the lake. "I thought she would be here," he said, unable to hide the disappointment from his voice.

"She isn't coming," admitted the man, "but it is she who sent me to you, as much as she brought you to me. "Won't you sit, Emrys?"

Merlin sat. "Don't call me that. My name is Merlin."

"Well, mine is Blaise. And this is Ganieda." Blaise sat, too, and for a moment the three of them just looked at each other.

"You know, you can come to Camelot now. Magic is legal again."

"Yes, I know," said Blaise, rubbing his hands together. "But it is a beautiful evening, don't you think? To sit by a lake?" He stopped smiling. "We can't come to Camelot, Merlin. It's full of Mordred's spies."

Merlin looked at the kind man, and the slightly nervous younger woman. "You're hiding from Mordred?"

"Goodness, no," said Blaise. "Well, not generally. We work with Mordred. We are part of his camp."

Merlin got up so fast he practically fell over his log.

"Blaise!" The girl got up, and held up a hand. "Blaise, you've scared him with your dramatics. Please sit. He's being dramatic. We don't support Mordred, but it is true we are part of his camp. Please sit. The Lady of the Lake sent us to his camp. The Old Religion is worried."

Merlin sat, gingerly. "Everyone's worried."

"Yes. When the Isle of the Blessed is worried about Camelot, it must be dark days indeed," agreed Blaise, thoughtfully. "The fact is, Mordred is massively dangerous. It isn't exactly his power that's the problem. It's the way he uses it. He's causing great disruption to the natural balance of things. They sent us to work with him, to try and bring him down from the inside. We are attempting to persuade his druid followers of the extent of the problem."

"But he sent us to Morgana and Morgause," concluded Ganieda. "They're camped not far from here, at Val sans Retour. He felt they needed our back-up more than he did. He's right," she added, slightly disdainfully.

"You know Morgana?"

"We do," said Blaise, sadly. "It's a terrible tragedy, her story, Merlin. She is in well over her head with Mordred and Morgause. She thought she was enacting a petty vengeance against Uther for his persecution of sorcerers. Instead she's found herself bringing destruction and anarchy on Albion for the personal advancement of a crazed boy. There are many like her in Mordred's movement. People thought Mordred would save the Old Religion. Instead he's destroying it along with everything else. Chaos is coming, Merlin. I think you knew that already."

Merlin nodded, numbly. "We have to stop him."

"Yes," agreed Blaise. "That's what we are working on. Arthur is a fine soldier, Merlin, and he can deal with every aspect of this situation apart from the problem of magic. We wanted to meet you. Do we have a friend in Camelot?" he eyed Merlin. "Will you come to our camps when we ask you to? Will you talk to the people? They will trust you. And you mustn't tell Arthur yet. He won't trust the druids, and nor should he, at the moment. Not until we have done our work. I don't mean speaking to Morgana or Morgause," he added, quickly. "Mordred wants to meet you and Arthur together in battle with the Saxons. He can't destroy you independently. He has to do it together, if he can. You are two –"

"Sides of the same coin, yes." He rubbed his forehead. "You have a friend in Camelot. I have to protect Arthur from him."

"Thank you." Blaise looked across the water, and seemed to have an internal conversation with himself, before continuing. "You know, Merlin. It isn't your responsibility to _save _Arthur. Your fate is to help him create Albion. But it isn't your fate to save him every time. I want you to remember that, one day. It is Arthur's destiny to create a good and powerful realm. It isn't his destiny to live forever. Or even necessarily to live to enjoy it for long."

Merlin was looking at the shingle shore, the stones pale in the moonlight. He didn't look at either Ganieda or Blaise. "The time to cast away Excalibur..." he said, swallowing, "is far off, though."

"Oh yes, yes, far off," Blaise said, blowing on his fingers. "It was just a point of information."

Merlin held his gaze steady. "How far off?" he asked, hating the vulnerability in his tone.

They both stood, and Blaise rested a hand on his shoulder. "Far enough. But Mordred is clever. He wants to weaken the king before he meets him in battle. Look to the Queen, Merlin. Arthur has two weaknesses – you and her. Mordred cannot get to you without taking on him too. But he can get to her. We must go before we are missed. But we'll speak again."

"Goodbye," said Ganieda, with a kind, shy smile, and the two began walking away.

Merlin stared contemplatively into the lake for a few minutes, waiting, and then, when she didn't come, he got up to leave.

*****

There was no nostalgia about the sneaking back into the castle. His trepidation mounted as every familiar landmark indicated his approach there. He checked the great hall – Arthur was still there, talking to Sir Geraint about the Cornish marches. Arthur barely seemed to sleep these days. His responsibilities stretched across miles as people asked for help, advice, any sort of moral support, from the Round Table. He had to think about everything from the politics of Orkney to the food supply in Gwynedd, as well as Camelot's economy and the problems with draining bogs in Northumbria. He looked up as Merlin opened the door. "Merlin? Why aren't you in bed?"

"I couldn't sleep," said Merlin, looking around the room. Sir Geraint, Leon, Gawain, Ywain, Agravayne, Kay. That was all. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and left, the words ringing in his head, which suddenly seemed cavernous. He climbed the stairs, barely feeling the wall under his touch, and walked down the corridor, he felt impelled by a force external to himself, dragging him almost against his will. The dread he felt was so overpowering he could concentrate only on the final aim, everything else was lost in his periphery vision. How far off? His skin crawled. Surely it hadn't even really begun yet. Arthur wasn't forming a realm yet; he was trying to hold other people's realms together with both hands. Surely this wasn't Albion. He hadn't even begun. How far off?

He opened Arthur's door, hand shaking, and found the rooms empty, as he knew he would. Arthur would have told her to sleep in her private chambers, so he wouldn't wake her if and when he came to bed so late. He could practically hear the conversation. He carried on walking, still feeling as though moving on air under some magical volition, and knocked on the Queen's chambers. No answer. He knocked louder. He tried the door. It was locked. He wanted to scream, he thought his chest would burst from the pressure. He knocked again. "Gwen," he said, loudly, deliberately. "Gwen."

Finally she opened the door, pulling a gown over her nightdress, she was scared, and as he pushed the door, he saw, as he always knew he would, Lancelot, standing in the corner, getting ready to defend himself.

This was how it would end, he thought, dully, as Gwen slammed the door behind him and began gabbering, and Lancelot rushed forwards, talking, and they both dragged him to a chair. This was how it would end. Not decided in battle, or for noble causes, but for this. Whatever happened now, on battlefields or around Round Tables, and whatever would be recorded in histories and told by diplomats in royal courts across the world, however the coming events occurred, almost didn't matter. Whatever happened now, Mordred would have won, and Arthur would have lost, and all over this.


End file.
